


A Start

by desperationandgin



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 11:40:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4018390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desperationandgin/pseuds/desperationandgin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regina lets Robin see a tiny piece of her in the Enchanted Forest; set during the missing year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Start

Regina isn’t sociable. No one expects her to be, no one ever tries to talk her into staying after dinner to enjoy the fire outside while it’s not too chilly in the evenings but not oppressively warm, either. Snow will sometimes sigh in Regina’s general direction, but it’s never more than that, not anymore. It’s always the same; the queen arrives, dressed as if dinner with the misplaced commonwealth of Storybrooke is a formal affair. She sits at the head of the long table with Snow and David on either side and she eats in silence, drinks a chalice of wine, then leaves without saying a word.

Robin always watches from the other end of the table.

She’s intriguing to him, a mystery folded in turmoil waiting to be unwrapped, he thinks. And then, one evening he does dare to ask, despite Little John’s protests.

“M’lady. There’s a fire outside, blankets if you catch a chill and good ale if you’d like to join us.”

The quiet that falls over the table is palpable, Granny sitting with her fork halfway to her mouth as everyone’s eyes dart between the bold thief and the evil queen. When she stands, it’s slow, her hands on either side of her plate until she’s standing as tall as she possibly can.

(She  has to look up, slightly, with how close he’s standing.)

“Do I look like I drink ale with the peasants?” she asks, sneering her question.

“Well, you could, for one night,” he quips right back, and he smiles, all dimples and caution thrown to the wind.

Regina’s so shocked that he had a quip ready; she has nothing to fire back with and her eyes narrow before she turns to leave, using her magic (in a totally unnecessary move) to throw open the doors and go back to her chambers.

He doesn’t ask again, lesson learned. Weeks pass, and soon it will be entirely too warm for these nightly campfires, the sun staying in the sky a bit longer each evening. He finds himself alone now more often than not, Roland already asleep by the time the sun’s light finally disappears. Poking at the fire with a stick, light footsteps make him glance up, then back at the fire until it registers just who his visitor is. Looking back again, he stands quickly, surprise on his face. “M’lady. To what do I owe the pleasure?” And then he truly gets a good look at her and inhales sharply at the sight of the queen, hair down around her shoulders, in a gown that’s not quite as formal as any others she wears to council meetings or dinner, even. Just a deep red and flowing thing that leaves her shoulders bare.

“I didn’t come here for the conversation,” she retorts, sitting not quite across from him, but not directly next to Robin, either. There are pieces of paper clutched in her hand, and she reaches out to toss them into the fire, then watches the embers float to the sky. The flames make the dampness of her eyes shine, and he can’t help himself.

“May I ask what you’re doing?”

“No.”

He can’t say he expected anything less. But she doesn’t leave, either. She sits and watches the flames and the look on her face, the vacant sadness makes him ache. She’s never showed him a kindness save for the golden arrows since taking back the castle, and yet he wants to take her into his arms and offer words of comfort for her loss, to chase away the darkness that lingers on every edge of her. It’s clear though, that she doesn’t want him to speak, even if for some reason she needs to be here and has to use  _his_  fire. It’s that she hasn’t left that makes him stay as well. Robin’s fully aware that she can take care of herself and yet he stays, pretends he’d planned on remaining for hours.

“They were letters. To Henry,” she speaks, though she doesn’t look over, doesn’t take her eyes away from the flame. “The bug - Archie - suggested it.”

“Archie?” Robin asks, forehead knit a bit.

“Oh, right. Jiminy. The actual bug.”

With an ‘ah,’ Robin nods. “Quite unusual, yes. He suggested what?”

“Writing letters to my son and burning them. Just…to get it out. What I would say to him.”

Robin watches her face, then turns away as she looks at him, assuming she wouldn’t appreciate the scrutiny.

“Did it help?” he asks, letting the fire lick at a long stick.

“Nothing helps. It just makes me miss him more,” Regina replies quietly, looking down at her hands. Her hair hides her face for the most part, a dark curtain that keeps her tears from being seen.

He has to choose his words carefully, he knows, and for a while the silence stretches on until he’s sure the moment has passed and it’s too late. And so, he stands and moves closer, sitting heavily beside her, close enough that his shoulder touches hers. She tenses, he can feel it, but he’s busy now using a knife to carve away at a new, oversized piece of wood, and she soon relaxes again. Still he says nothing, and neither does she. The two of them there together, silent - she with her grief and he with his simple tools.

“What are you making?” she finally asks, unable to help her curiosity.

“I have no idea. I never plan these things. Roland’s got quite the collection of random animals because of it,” Robin replies with a hint of a smile.

“You said in the tunnels that your wife’s death was your fault. How?”

It’s an abrupt topic change and Robin’s hands stop, his gaze looking into the fire as he takes a deep breath. “I didn’t protect her as I should have.” It’s all he says before going back to carving.

“But you’re… _happy_  now,” she points out, forehead knit together tightly.

“Yes, I’ve managed to find peace. I have my son, my men, food for us all and the means to help us survive.” It clicks then, that she doesn’t understand, she doesn’t register how after such a loss he can find it in himself to not wish for an eternal nap. “I believe it’s because…I didn’t shut others out,” he treads lightly.

Not light enough though, as she glares at him. “I’m not shutting anyone out. No one cares.”

“And yet here I am, sitting shoulder to shoulder with you.”

Regina’s jaw clenches because he’s right, and she takes a deep breath. “Fine. You care for some noble reason. I never asked for you to.”

“You never had to,” he counters quietly, looking over at her. “You’re grieving, Regina. Someone should care. People do. You push them away and yet resent them for not trying. What do you  _want_?”

“I want my  _son_  back. I want it to be okay to miss him and hate this without everyone looking at me in a mix of pity and fear of what I might do to lash out.” Her voice breaks a bit, and he reaches, covering the hand resting on her own knee with his.

“I can’t bring you your son. But you can be upset in your own way. His memory deserves better than a sleeping curse for yourself, Regina. But you can be angry. No one’s stopping you from that.”

For a few long moments they lock eyes, staring at one another silently. When she turns away from him she stands, apparently done with the conversation. “Goodnight, thief.” She walks away before he can stop her, making him sigh heavily and rub at his eyes.

He smothers the fire, heads back to the castle, and the next night, goes to the same spot. It’s only a few moments after Roland has fallen asleep that Regina is there again, sitting. And this time they don’t talk at all. She stares at the flames, he carves, and they repeat the process until the nights are too warm for fire. They still argue at council meetings, she thinks she can’t stand the sight of him and he’s given up on her. She convinces herself of it until one evening, alone in her chambers and sitting on the edge of the bed she notices something that hadn’t been on her nightstand before: a small carved figure of a child. All of this time she hadn’t been able to tell what he was carving, and she holds it delicately in her hand, one finger tracing patterns over the chest.

She cries, slow tears at first and then deeper as she cups the carving in both hands. She lets go of the things she hasn’t shared with Robin, the parts of herself that are closely guarded. His gift breaks down a wall, the first of many.

But, it’s a start. 


End file.
